The last night before the rest of their lives
by Raayen
Summary: "Neither of them had Salvation. Neither would receive forgiveness. It was their last night, their last supper, the last time they would be together. Finally, they could get carried away by temptation." Or my idea of what happened after Crowley offered Aziraphale to spend the night in his flat.
1. Chapter 1

It was a beautiful night.

It could be argued that, compared to the Apocalypse of that afternoon, even one of those nights when the fog prevents you from seeing beyond a few steps could be called a beautiful night. But it was on its own right. The sky was clear, full of stars, and in Tadfield the only noise was from the bus that had just stopped in front of the village church.

It was approached by two men who sat together in the middle of the bus. No one seemed to care that they had climbed without paying or that they smelled of wine and burnt tires. After all, it was a beautiful night. The passengers weren't going to be distracted by those details.

Crowley looked out the window at the night landscape, trying to locate himself. For the diversion to work, he had to perform the miracle at the right time, although it's not that getting to somewhere else bothered him either. They could rent a hotel room and pretend they had run away together. It would be still closer than Alpha Centauri.

Beside him, Aziraphale was silent. Except for the greeting to the driver, he had not spoken since Crowley had offered him to stay overnight in his flat.

It made him nervous.

Was he going too fast? Was it right to mention that his bookstore had caught fire? Maybe he wanted to spend the night there anyway, grieving his loss. Crowley would have done it with his Bentley if some of it had survived after the explosion. A wave of regret hit him, and he felt stupid for proposing something like that. What was he, the generic seducer of a bar, inviting his conquest to spend the night in his flat? 6000 years and Crowley still didn't know how to approach the angel.

* * *

They arrived at Crowley's flat after midnight. Aziraphale had never been there, too busy with his books and his duties to go visit the demon. Besides, it's hard to pay a visit to someone who is already in the back room of your bookstore with a glass of wine in his hand, winking to tempt you.

That was why it was a surprise for the angel to feel terror as he approached the door. Of course, I was entering the domains of a being of darkness, but that was ridiculous. He had never felt this near him. He thought of Beelzebub, or Hastur, or even Miguel. He lamented not having more time, even if it was a restful night, before dealing with the revenge of Heaven and Hell.

Aziraphale sighed exhausted and took Crowley's wrist before he opened the door. The demon looked at him, intrigued and fascinated in equal parts, raising his right eyebrow above the dark glasses.

"Well angel, at least wait to be inside," he said, in a seductive voice that barely concealed the lump in his throat.

"What? Crowley, it's not time to joke! There is danger in there. I can feel it. This place is full of terror."

"Oh, of course, terror," he murmured disappointed. "I don't feel anything different. The same old apartment. Are demonic forces the ones you feel?"

"Well ... not exactly." He hesitated, releasing the demon. He felt no evil, although being so long near Crowley could have stunted his senses. There was no goodness in there at least. "It's not one of mine."

"Well, neither of mine. I think you're still paranoid for this afternoon," he said opening the door. "I think you need some wine to calm down. Or a back massage," he added, winking, like the best generic seducer.

The demon entered as a lord in his domain and the plants of the place began to tremble. Then Aziraphale understood.

"Crowley, what have you done to your plants?"

"I water them once a week and sometimes I talk to them. I heard on the radio that they grow better. Are not they beautiful?"

Aziraphale looked at him, accuser. "They are terrified."

"Well, of course. You can't have plants that green without a little discipline."

The angel shook his head and sighed disapprovingly. He still felt uncomfortable surrounded by so much terror, but the company of the demon was worth it. It was always worth it.

"Do you want something to eat, angel? I have gourmet food in the fridge. Tell me what you want and I will give it to you. "

Aziraphale blushed, to his misfortune. He tried to convince himself that the demon was talking about food, but still the offer turned his stomach. "You're going too fast again," he thought. "But we don't have time anymore." Maybe it was good to go fast.

He smiled nervously and swallowed some saliva before answering. "Surprise me."

A crooked smile was drawn on Crowley's face. He guided him to the living room and pointed to the leather couch, before disappearing into the kitchen. "Be comfortable. Will be back in a moment."

The angel sat in one of the corners of the couch and look at the place. It had style, there was no doubt about that, and was surrounded by last generation technology. But somehow it felt empty, as if the demon didn't live there and only step in to torture his plants. There was much more of Crowley in his old bookstore. His presence was all over the place. When Aziraphale missed him, it was enough to close his eyes in the back room to feel Crowley next to him.

"Romanée-Conti, harvest of the '45," Crowley interrupted, with a bottle in his right hand. "And something to eat."

That something was a table of fine cheeses, ham, olives, grapes and nuts. In a corner there were crackers and a bowl with honey. Aziraphale bit his lower lip. The demon knew how to tempt him.

"Now, angel," he began, as he leaned back in the couch, "tell me what you plan to do with the bookstore."

It was a direct question, he knew. And painful. He hoped not to ruin the angel's mood with salt in the wound, but he needed to know. Because if Aziraphale had plans, it meant there was hope. Crowley needed hope. But when he saw his friend's face darken, he knew there was nothing to hold on to.

"The bookstore ..." stopped, and drank a sip of red wine "the bookstore ... I don't think it would be of any use to rebuild it. The books were lost in the fire."

"You can get new books. We could look for those that are not so damaged and fix them. I am sure that a couple of supernatural beings can deal with scorched books."

"Even so ..." his voice became a whisper, "I don't think I could come to the reopening."

Both were silent for a moment. But Crowley insisted.

"It's Heaven," he tried, "and you are a Principality. You were the angel of the East Gate. They can't make you disappear."

"They can't, Crowley? We prevent his Great War. You saw Gabriel. They will not forgive it."

"Yeah, but ... will God agree?"

"I don't think it matters. They are acting on their own. Before the fire they cornered me in an alley and beat me."

"They ... What?" His voice was full of surprise and indignation.

"Yes ... well, that." He paused to prick an olive before continuing. "They suspected me and threatened me. Now that they know what I did they won't stop with a couple of punchs."

"But ... the One above ..." he tried for the last time, his voice broken. He knew that the Holy Water was waiting for him. He had sealed his destiny with Ligur. But Aziraphale...

The angel made a couple of circles with his glass and saw the wine, melancholyc. "Maybe it's part of the ineffable plan," he suggested without much conviction.

"Fuck the ineffable plan."

Aziraphale was too tired to be outraged by the blasphemy of the demon. Exhausted by the physical and spiritual effort of possessing a human. Emotionally drained for the last eleven years trying to stop the Apocalypse. But especially tired of the rigidity of Heaven. Of the efforts of both sides to end the other. Of the indifference of the One above, which had created humans and then left them at the mercy of angels, indolent creatures who only saw them as collateral damage from their Great War. He felt disgusted.

"Fuck the ineffable plan," he repeated, rebel.

Crowley refilled their glasses and continued to drink in silence. Occasionally Aziraphale pricked a cheese, a grape, and chewed it with poorly contained rage. The demon felt desolated.

They spent more than an hour in that shared silence, filling their glasses with a bottle that had been empty forty minutes ago. Finally, Aziraphale spoke.

"I think I'll accept your offer," he said, bringing a piece of Stilton to his lips. He paused to savor the cheese before continuing. "The massage," he clarified.

Crowley looked at him slightly bewildered. Not so much because the angel came out with the topic of a massage hours after he had suggested it half as a joke, but because of the tone with which he had said it. There was no trace of the previous melancholy on his face. Aziraphale was determined to receive that massage. And hell if he would not give it to him, even if the Antichrist put himself in the middle.

"Yeah, yeah, abslo ... absolub ... of course." He said, quickly putting the glass of wine on the table, which burst with the impact. Neither of them paid attention. "Be comfortable. And I… ergh… yes."

Aziraphale got up and put his jacket on a table. Then he struggled with the buttons of his vest, staggering, too focused on unbuttoning them to remember that he could make them unbutton. Or maybe, it was part of the ineffable plan that had drawn his drunk brain, hiding it even from himself. Because when he looked up, frustrated with the third button, he saw Crowley almost on top of him. The demon helped him with the rest of the buttons as best he could.

In other words, he didn't help at all.

After a few minutes of elbows, pulls, clashes of hands, unwittingly buttoning a couple of buttons and unbuttoning others, both tacitly declared that they had lost against the vest and it would stay where it was. They returned to the couch, defeated.

Aziraphale took the bottle of wine, which was full to the top, and sat with his back to the demon. He felt Crowley's hands on his shirt and shivered. To distract himself, he tried to comfort the plants.

"Deep down he's not so bad," he tried to tell them, half babble, half thought, "just a little rough sometimes. He won't hurt you."

His words were sincere and loaded with goodwill, unaware of the extent of the fear Crowley had inflicted on them. In his opinion, the demon was as soft as the hands that massaged his shoulders. Firm hands, yes, relentless with the tension that had accumulated in the last week. But soft despite of everything.

He closed his eyes.

The massage felt like a caress on her clothes, Crowley's fingers going down her vertebrae, tracing circles with his thumbs, gently squeezing his sides, too soft for millennia of indulgence with food, and then going up, up, until he reached his neck and this time yes, it really was a caress, his hands impossibly soft running down his neck and making him hold his breath.

He sighed.

Behind him, his friend tensed up. The hands stopped, guilty, on his shoulders, as if he had been discovered doing something wrong.

In some way, he had.

He felt the change of weight on his shoulders when Crowley tried to withdraw his hands, but Aziraphale was faster and took them, brought them close to his mouth and kissed them. He kissed his knuckles, the fingers that had caressed him, the backs of his hands, his wrists. Then he entwined their fingers and dropped them to his chest.

Crowley said nothing. When he felt the angel's lips on his skin, he did not try to prevent it. That was a miracle, and he feared that whatever he did would be a demonic intervention.

But when he felt his friend lie on him, guiding his intertwined hands to surround him, the demon fulfilled. He hugged him tightly, to feel him close, so he would never be without him, never lose him. He wrapped him in his arms and, on another plane, covered with his wings to protect him from the world. At that moment he had him, with his head so close to his heart and his hair brushing his chin.

* * *

Aziraphale woke up in Crowley's arms, on the way to his room. They passed plants that shuddered like vassals near a tyrant king. He made a mental note to do something about it, but then discarded it, given up. In a short time nobody would bother them.

"What happened? What time is it?" He muttered.

Crowley's face tensed a fraction of a second, then changed to a smile full of sweetness.

"About four o'clock. You slept during the massage and I thought you would rest better here."

"Oh ..." Aziraphale noticed what the demon was hiding and tought if it had happened before. _Too late to do something about it_, he tought. He faked a smile. "How careless. I don't usually sleep. "

"You should try it".

"Now?"

"Sure ... when else?" Crowley's smile was at breaking point. "You could sleep until noon. Or more, if you want. I once slept a century, you know? Great experience. Much better than sushi. "

He tried to laugh. And failed.

"I don't think ..." alcohol and fatigue clouded his ideas. He needed to sober up. "I don't think the angels will be happy to found me in bed with a demon."

Crowley stopped smiling. They had reached the room. "Angel, your bosses are going to give a shit where they find you. That you are in the bed _of_ a demon will not make a difference at this point. "

Aziraphale knew he was right, but he didn't care if they found them together either. To be honest with himself, he wanted to be found that way. It would be his last act of rebellion. His last act of love. But he could not say it. He needed that Crowley take the next step.

Only he didn't. Instead, he placed him in the middle of the bed, gently, and knelt down to take off his shoes. Then he unfastened his vest, which this time did not resist, and took it off. There were no caresses. There was no unnecessary friction. Crowley silently tucked him in and then walked to the door. Aziraphale swallowed.

"Where are you going?" he asked with a trembling voice. _Please don't go_.

"I'm going to have a bath". The demon leaned against the door frame, unconcerned. "I have never used it and I think now it's a good time."

Aziraphale felt as the opportunity slipped through his fingers. He tried to catch it back.

"And then?"

"Then," Crowley gestured to the air, as if it didn't matter, "I'll probably rest my eyes on the couch." He smiled. "I'll be alert in case we have visitors."

"I understand". His eyes closed against his will. We really need to sober up. "I hoped ..." He paused to gather courage before continuing, "I hoped you would accompany me. Here, "he said, clumsily hitting the mattress." There is enough space for both of us. When you come back from your bath we could ... "

"Could we what, angel?" The demon interrupted him with a voice full of malice.

Aziraphale bit his lip. There was a reason why angels did not engage in temptations, and he was understanding it. His heart was pounding. He felt nauseous. But continued. "We could share the bed. Like humans, "he whispered. He needed air." I'd like to ... experience a night with you. I could make an effort so you enjoy.

Crowley looked at him for a few seconds and Aziraphale felt small, as if the demon was judging him and didn't like what he see. The smile had been erased from his face. Didn't he want the same? How could he have been so wrong? When he spoke again, his voice was hard.

"Experiment," Crowley's face was concrete. "Make an Effort. Listen, Aziraphale. You're an angel and I'm a demon. Do you remember? That's why you didn't want to run away with me. And now you ask me to share a bed. "He huffed. "_As humans_."

"Crowley ..." Aziraphale pleaded.

"You drank too much, angel. Don't say things that you'll regret in the morning." _That you won't remember in the morning_, he tought bitterly. "Goodnight."

The demon turned and left the room. The door closed behind him and Aziraphale was alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley walked to the bathroom with frustration. With a gesture he opened the passage of hot water and watched as the bath filled with bubbles. He put his glasses on the toilet pond and began to undress, throwing the clothes angrily to the side of the room.

For millennia, he had to strive to gain the confidence of the angel. To forge an arragement, to work together, to establish a friendship. Even in recent years, when it was already common to share their time - and their drink - Crowley still felt that any misstep would take him away.

It would be incredibly easy to let something else happen, try a little and maybe, with a little luck - or persuasion or strength - take away the purity of the angel. You could get a position as Duke of Hell with that achievement. In his case, maybe he could get forgiveness.

But what would happen to Aziraphale?

Before Armageddon, they might have banish him. Another fallen angel, straight to the sulfur pit, rot and evil that was Hell. He wouldn't have survived. Crowley had taken millennia to forge a name down there, and Aziraphale just didn't have what it took. He would've ended as a toy for the demons.

He couldn't do that to him.

Besides... What's the point of being remembered as the demon who took advantage of an angel? He didn't want that. He was not interested in his purity, nor being a Duke of Hell, nor earning recognition of a lot of demons trapped in the fourteenth century. He was happy with Aziraphale's company, sharing a dinner at the Ritz or a bottle of champagne in the moonlight, laughing at nonsense, his eyes shining when he fullfill one of his whims, his mischievous smile, the way, despite everything, he looked at him flirtatiously.

He will not going to betray him just because he had drunk too much.

So he had drawn an invisible line when the angel hugged him. He got rid of the alcohol in his body and was content with feeling him in his arms. Then he carried him to his room, and like other times, he pretended nothing had happened. It was the unspoken agreement he had with Aziraphale. Both were responsible for setting limits when the other could lost his way. Ironically, it was the only way they could stay together.

He finished undressing and spreaded his wings in front of the mirror. He was observed by a pair of yellow eyes, with the pupils torn. Black feathers floated next to his face. The being in front of him was almost a man, but not quite. Too many bones, placed in the wrong order. His freckles were actually tiny scales that dotted his body. His feet were halfway between a tail and a leather shoe. He did not have the beauty of an angel, nor the simplicity of a human. He was a monster, like all the entities that were corrupted in Hell. Crowley hated that too.

He didn't want to fall, or fight in the Great War, or spend the rest of his eternity serving Satan. Nor was he sure he wanted to be an angel again. Both sides were the same garbage with a different color. What Crowley wanted was to be free.

Crowley longed for the freedom of humans.

So he erased his scales and tried his best with his eyes. He turned his lower limbs into feet. Then he disappeared his wings and noticed that he was not alone.

"You are beautiful as you are, dear," said the angel behind him, walking in his direction. "You shouldn't hide it."

"And you shouldn't spy on people while they are in the bathroom." What was going on? Why was he there? "Didn't I tell you to sleep, angel? You drank too much."

He tried to disguise his surprise with indignation, but instead his voice came out hard and a little cruel. He feared it could had been too much when he saw him stop, with a shadow of doubt on his face. He turned to him. "What are you doing here, little angel?" He asked in a sweeter voice.

Aziraphale was two meters away from him and looked into his eyes without speaking, blushing. Crowley took a step to shorten the distance and saw him shudder. Should he cover himself? Something told him not angel knew exactly how he was going to find him when he went to look for him in the bathroom. _And he had watched_.

"What are you playing, angel?"

"I'm not playing anything," he replied indignantly. "I just wanted to…"

He looked away. Crowley took another step. For a moment, neither spoke.

"I wanted to apologize," he said at last, "for my… scandalous suggestion before. I don't know what I was thinking."

Crowley looked at his face and knew he was lying. It was obvious that the angel knew what he was thinking, because he kept thinking about it at that moment. And he had the nerve to be ashamed...

The demon half-smiled, amused.

"Yes, very scandalous," he said in a mocking tone. Aziraphale didn't notice.

"I hope this does not harm our friendship," he continued, more confident in himself, all composure and formality. "Obviously wine affected me badly. You know I would never say something like that."

Crowley tried to contain the laught. And failed.

"Yeah, yeah," he said with a laugh, "sure not."

"Crowley? I am trying to apologize. Why are you making fun of me?"

"I'm not making fun of you," he said, before holding his breath to stop laughing, "but I find hilarious that you say that."

"And why would it be, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, genuinely offended.

"Because you have proposed it to me for a thousand years or so."

"I never…"

"You almost never." He corrected him. "But sometimes you do."

Aziraphale looked puzzled. He had stopped blushing, and instead his face was turning pale.

"Look," he tried to reassure him, "it have only been a couple of times. Nothing important. And nothing has happened that you can regret."

"Why not, Crowley?"

He couldn't believe he was asking that. What did he think of him? "Angel, you know me. You know I would never do anything you didn't want. Not even at the end of the world. Not even now."

"What if I wanted to?"

"You were drunk. Always."

"I am not now."

No, he wasn't. _And he was asking him_. Crowley felt like the air had suddenly left his lungs and, had he needed it to live, the choking sensation would have prevented him from thinking. But he wasn't human, to his misfortune. So he _choose_ he didn't want to think about it and walked to the bathtub.

"I'm going to take a bath." His mouth was dry. "You can sstay, if you want. Bring a chair. Sssee the show." He sat with his back to Aziraphale, unable to look him in to the eyes. He paused before continuing, aware of his nervous hiss. "Or accompany me inside. There is enough ssspace for the two. I could continue with the massage. I could-"

The phrase stopped in his throat with a hoarse sound when he felt a sponge come into contact with his bare skin. Paralyzed, he managed to see Aziraphale from the corner of his eye, kneeling behind him, his shirt rolled up to his elbows. Had he always been so stealthy, or was Crowley who was not alert? He admitted, not without difficulty, that it was the latter. In that moment he was too aware that he was naked, exposed to the sight and touch of the angel behind him, with barely a piece of metal separating them. And Aziraphale desired him, and he had told him, and although he had told him before, now was different. It wasn't the blurry desire of a night with too much alcohol on his body, nor the clear but ephemeral flash when Crowley leaned too close to the angel to annoy him. It was a desire that filled the room and got into his pores and didn't let him think straight.

Aziraphale slipped the sponge from his shoulder to his right arm, in a movement so smooth that it could very well be a caress. When he reached his elbow he stopped and undid the path, and then back down again and again. When he felt satisfied, he took the sponge with his left hand and rested his right on Crowley's shoulder, which tensed with the unexpected contact, but relaxed as he felt the touch of the sponge on his other arm.

Until that minute neither of them had dared to speak, afraid to break the spell of that moment with absurd words. Everything that had to be said had already been said, and both had made their decision.

Aziraphale had made his hours ago, when he agreed to spend the night at Crowley's apartment. He had been fantasizing about something like that from the moment he had been rescued from the Nazis, and perhaps before, even if he refused to admit it. He knew that would seal his fall, but - he had thought in the road to London- what was the matter with Fall, if he had already been rejected by Heaven? Would Hell accept him, after what he had done that afternoon? Was anyone still keeping track of his miracles and sins?

Crowley, on the other hand, had made his decision minutes ago, when he felt the desire that came from the angel. For years, he had played to tempt Aziraphale, with the security of betting to lose. He knew that the angel would never accept him - not concious, at least, and that was what matter- and therefore Crowley had been able to play his role as a generic seducer for centuries. He was happy to know that the angel wanted him and feel, very occasionally, that desire float between them for a few minutes, before Aziraphale struggled to suppress it.

However, in that moment it was the opposite. The angel didn't hide his desire, and, on the contrary, was he who was tempting him. Crowley felt warm water covering his body and a pair of wide hands running through it to remove the remains of soap. He closed his eyes to concentrate on Aziraphale's touch, silently handing him his body.

Neither of them had Salvation. None would receive forgiveness. It was their last night, their last supper, the last time they would share together. Finally, they could get carried away by temptation.

When Crowley opened his eyes again, he noticed that they were in darkness, illuminated by small lights that floated around him like fireflies. He heard Aziraphale deposit something in the ceramics of the bathroom and turned to see him, leaning, taking the sponge again. When he got up they were facing each other, and the demon could admire his face illuminated by the lights and his impossibly bright eyes. He dared to touch a cheek with his wet hand and gently stroke it with his thumb, while losing himself in the beauty of the angel.

Aziraphale placed his left hand on the neck of Crowley and leaned down to place a kiss on his forehead. When they separated, they saw that both were smiling.

Crowley turned again, taking Aziraphale's left hand to place it right over his heart. The angel's free hand also slid over his chest, rubbing it with a sponge that filled his body with soap and tickles. If he had to describe what it felt, he would have said wet and soft and warm and _wonderful_.

In the first centuries of humanity, Crowley had dedicated himself to touring the world and knowing the early cultures. He had tried his meals, his drinks and his traditions, and he had also tried some men and women. Everything, except the alcohol, had caused him a general sense of disinterest. Over time - and in large part, by Aziraphale's company - he had enjoyed the food, although when he was alone he was mainly engaged in drinking. He had wondered, for years, if the influence of the angel would also make him enjoy _other things_ more.

Even on the nights he felt particularly lonely and creative, he couldn't imagine that he could enjoy so much with a sponge. But then, without really wanting to provoke it, Aziraphale brushed one of his nipples and Crowley groaned. The electric shock was as unexpected as it was pleasant, and he realized that even the angel had been surprised. He had heard about stimulations - it was impossible to live with humans and not be familiar with their erogenous zones - but when Crowley had tried he had felt no more than an annoying itching.

The bodies of angels and demons were not designed for reproduction, so no one had worried about connecting the cables well before sending them to Earth. Crowley understood that at that moment it was their desire the one doing the job, waking up inert areas and leading them both along a path of pleasure that humans had traveled for 6000 years. And they only had a couple of hours to catch up.

He felt the sponge go down, tracing circular movements on his flat stomach. To get there, Aziraphale had to lean down and press his chest to Crowley's back. The buttons on his shirt brushed his vertebrae and the wet cloth let him feel the warm skin it hid. The angel's curls brushed his cheek and if he paid attention he could hear his breathing, accelerated. "All or nothing," he thought, materializing something that made Aziraphale give a stifled scream and let go of the sponge in the bathtub.

"I thought you would like to see how much I enjoy what you are doing," he tried to joke.

It took Aziraphale a few seconds to answer, still surprised. "I could hear how much you enjoyed it, dear," he finally replied, in a mocking tone, "you didn't have to make an effort."

"Either way," he continued, getting up, "I think I'll have to stop. From this position I cannot reach the rest of your body. I think you will have to continue alone."

Crowley looked at him for a moment, confused. But then he saw the angel's flushed cheeks, his crooked smile, his eyes darkened by desire, and he knew that was not all. Aziraphale didn't want to stop. He wanted Crowley to ask him not to stop. He felt something shiver in his lower belly and smiled.

"You could accompany me in the bathtub. Here," he said, spreading his legs until he was in an explicit position even with the bubles, and patting that spot. "There is enough space for both of us, and you would have access to my whole body."

Aziraphale sighed, as if that were a life or death decision. "Unfortunately, my dear, if I do that, the suit is going to be ruined. You know I got it more than a century ago and I don't want to risk the same thing that happened to my shirt."

Crowley looked at the shirt in question. It was wet and stuck to Aziraphale's body, revealing his curves and the darkest areas of his chest. He looked at his face and saw that his swollen lips had curved in a pot, but his eyes were still bright, waiting for what they both longed for.

"Oh, right, your suit," he pretended, as if he cared about the suit at all.

"Although, well," the angel continued, as if the idea had just occurred to him, "nobody gets into a bathtub with clothes. And that would solve the problem of the suit."

"Ssounds reasonable," Crowley squawked.

Aziraphale gave a mischievous smile. He looked into his eyes as his hands went down his torso, unbuttoning the shirt, slowly revealing his voluptuous forms. The angel could make his clothes disappear in a blink of an eye, but he was taking the slow path, with the intuition of the effect that would have. Crowley could feel his own desire in the room, a thick fog that lodged in his throat. When Aziraphale unzipped his trousers, desire escaped his body with a hoarse groan.

The trousers slid down a pair of white legs like two ivory towers. Crowley was hypnotized looking at them, hungry, eager to _devour_ them. His vision was interrupted when Aziraphale took off his shoes and pulled his trousers off with his bare feet. The angel was practically naked, with underpants covering his private parts, which were guessed as bulky forms under the white cloth.

"Making an effort to impresss me, angel?" He asked, looking blatantly at Aziraphale's crotch, who bit his lip in shame.

"It's Adam's work. He gave me the body he imagined I would have. No one told him that angels were sexless."

"Nice."

Aziraphale froze for a moment, his hands on the elastic underwear. With the dim lights floating around he looked like a Renaissance painting, all lights and shadows and flesh and curves and desire. Crowley didn't know if he should say something to encourage him, or, on the contrary, that would make him doubt even more. So he looked at him in silence, recording that moment in his mind to replay it when Hell destroy him. It would make his last moments more bearable.

But then Aziraphale also lowered that garment, revealing the forbidden flesh underneath, thick and juicy and _perfect_. Crowley licked his lips, wanting to swallow that part of the angel in a single bite, as if it were the prey of a snake. Aziraphale slipped into the tub and sat on the opposite end, looking excited and nervous.

They looked at each other in silence, with their bare legs touching underwater, waiting for the other to take the next step. Crowley decided it was his turn. He took the sponge next to him and crawled to his knees between Aziraphale's legs. He rested his left hand on the edge of the bathtub, feeling the rubbing of the bodies as he leaned over the angel, and dedicated his right hand to trace small movements around the neck that was offered to his caresses. He felt his breath, so warm, so sweet, so close, on his lips, and really, what prevented him from approaching?

"Are you sssure?" He whispered, and a part of him didn't want to ask the question, terrified that the angel would change his mind.

Aziraphale didn't answer. Instead, he closed his eyes and put his hands on Crowley's shoulders, gently pulling him towards him until he was completely covered by his body. The touch of his lips caused a pleasant chill that began in his mouth and ended at the tip of his feet, intertwined with those of the angel.

They kissed slowly, enjoying every moment with the satisfaction of someone who has waited millennia for that moment. Crowley toured the edge of Aziraphale's soft, moist lips with his tongue, savoring it, until they parted allowing him to enter the forbidden territory they hid. He drank from his mouth as if he contained the most sublime of ambrosias, while his hands traveled to the last inch of angel skin. It was wonderful and pleasant and he felt so, so happy, that the revelation that he would lose everything in a few hours broke his heart.

_Please don't take this from me._ \- He prayed silently, while Aziraphale's hands caressed his arms, his back, his torso, his legs. - _You already took away your Grace and your Love when you expelled me from your side, but don't take away his Grace and his Love too. It's all that I have. It's all I want. You know I never belonged to Hell, and maybe I didn't belong to Heaven either. But I belong with him. Please don't separate us. Please. You didn't allow them to destroy the world. Please. Don't let them destroy us. Please. At least save him. He has been so good, perhaps the only angel that has been good with your creation, and they will make him disappear. He is your son. And I once was too. If there is still some compassion in your ineffable coldness, please protect him. Please. Please. Please-_

The prayer was replaced by a groan when Aziraphale's hands found his member and stroked him inexperiencedly. He separated from his mouth for air, but their desire had charged the room to the point that it was difficult to breathe. He saw the angel's flushed face, and his gaze lost in pleasure, and decided that there were more important things than breathe. Barely aware of what he was doing, he kissed Aziraphale's cheeks, and his forehead, and his nose, and again his mouth, while he felt the rhythm in his crotch had accelerated and he had to separate again to scream.

He took Aziraphale's face with his left hand and searched blindly underwater, until he heard the moan that escaped his lips. He saw his face deformed by pleasure and accelerated the pace to match what he felt in his own body, delighted in the sounds that came from the angel's mouth. He felt a hand on his back, squeezing it, and understood, because he also felt the need to hold on something to not get lost in that sea of joy.

He felt at his limit, their bodies impossibly together and they intertwined in a tangle of limbs, giving pleasure, listening to the sobs of Aziraphale and his own groans in a chorus that could put in shame the songs of the archangels, because they would never feel a love as pure and real and earthly as they felt right now, surrendering to each other, without limits between body and soul, forgetting their differences and feeling like one, as if they found that half lost so long ago. He felt his pleasure mixed with Aziraphale's in his own skin, inside, and his love and desire and saw his face and lights and gold and white, white, white...

He seemed to float in the bathtub, like a leaf in the middle of the sea. An instant and a century later he returned and could open his eyes. He found himself facing golden eyes and a thin face that looked at him with surprise. How had that happened? When? Why?

"I didn't think it was possible," he heard himself say.

"Then they won't think so either," he replied, in Aziraphale's voice.

* * *

They walked together towards the bed, clean and dry, with their right bodies. Although it was much safer to stay in each other's body, they needed to _feel_. Crowley had always slept in a black satin pajamas and Aziraphale had never had the need to sleep, but that night they both layed naked and looked for each other under the covers. They slept in each other's arms, feeling the warmth and love and the remains of desire of the other, dreaming that there would be other times, that they had eternity for them.

There was hope. And they had faith.


End file.
